You can't paint her in a box,
Then tell her not to try to get out.
She is a woman.
You cannot break her spirit,
Then command for her not to try to fix it.
She is a fixer.
You cannot hurt her friends and family,
Then tell her to mind her own business.
She is a protector.
You cannot try to cheat her out of her worth,
Then hold a price over her head by continuing to pursue her.
She is priceless.
You cannot change her,
Then get upset, because she's changed herself.
She is evolving.
You cannot fight her,
Then get mad, because you've lost.
She's a fighter.
You cannot feed her loaded words, filled with nothing but false promises and infested intentions,
Then get mad when she don't believe your truth.
She is seeing.
You cannot continue to murder her dreams and aspirations,
Then get irrate, because she no longer has any.
She is seeing.
She is seeing.
She is a priceless, evolving woman, who is a fixer, protector, and a fighter.
She sees the world around herself,
And it doesn't consist of you.
She is living.
She is living.
Now that sounds just about right. When I write it has to flow, even if no one else will read it or see it. It means something to me. This was written after a woman named Lisa shared her story with me. She spoke through her pain and through her pain I was able to connect to her beauty.
"Writing again, huh?", Rose asks as she lends over my shoulder.
This is my lunch break and it's only so many places to go in a grocery store to actually have lunch. This is the table I try to get everytime in the cafe, near the deli. At this table, it's not too hot or too cold. It's just right. Today I felt the urge to write, even if I didn't have any paper to do it on. These brown paper towels from the men's washroom does just as well. Anything to get this poem out of my head. "Yeah, I am. Had to get it out."
"What's the name of it?"
"I don't know yet, but its definitely something. I think.", I smile at her tightening up my locs in a high ponytail. "You can read at your own risk."
Rose is probably one of the only people who I will openly share work with unless the poetry slams or coffee shop poetry readings that I try to enter into every once and while. I begin to eat my potato chips and wait for Rose's comments.
Waiting for someone to read anything that is authentically yours is nerve wrecking. For me it's like this, what if they don't understand what I'm trying to get across or doesn't understand how I write the way I do. I simply want to fully communicate to my audience when I do write.
"You know something, this is really good. How about we-"
"Nothing.", I said getting up from the table. "I'm not preforming in front of these people. Rose you preform."
"Olu- "
"Just call me Wale, because people are forever, murdering my name.", I laugh at Rose's face. "I love you, Rose Antoinette. Don't give me that 'well da-n look'."
If I had a sister from another mother, it would definitely be Rose. She is about the coolest chick I've ever met in my five years of working at Harvey's Grocery Store.
"I'm saying though, Wale. At least perform at my father's church on Saturday."
Church? Church is not my thing. I believe in God, but not necessarily religion. I believe a person can go to church faithfully, but that doesn't make him a faithful man. I don't want to be blasphemous, but that's how I feel. "Got a date with-"
"The flower girl, right?"
Chrysanthemum, you know her name Rose. "Yes.", I laugh at her, trying to make me feel bad. I've spoke at her father's church before and I had a good time, but it made me very uncomfortable. "I'm trading one flower for another one that night, but you are always my favorite flower."
"Whatever, Wale you suck.", she says, flicking me the bird. "Well I guess, it's just Khali and I for Sunday service. Your break is almost over." She walked back to her register and I threw my wrapper in the trash and walked back to mine.
"We will see though.", I say to her, slagging a paper bag in her direction.
"Who knows? Spoiled a**."
"So.", she laughs.
****
After my shift was over at the grocery store, I started my walk to my 2000 Honda Accord. Dealing with customers all day is makes me want to just go to the restroom sometimes and contemplate with selling drug or just being a male stripper, then I remember I ain't bout that life and I can't dance. So I suck it up and just go back out there and make that $8.00 an hour.
My phone buzzes in my pocket and I see Crysthamum's name appear on the screen. The two of us has been talking for the past three days. Nothing heavy, but I'm finding out she's a real chill type of girl. She's not trying to be after a man's money, not like I have any to be trying to get. Between taking care of my mother and trying to take care of myself, I barely have enough money for takeout. But a young man, is not stressing about the struggles that's making me a better man.
That's how you have to look at struggles, they have the potential of making you better. I'll admit it that sometimes I get frustrated by everything in my life as I get older and not being where I want to be, but life gets better.
Life gets better.
"Ma, the dinner is almost ready. I just have to start it first."
"Olubowale, go sit down. I've already ate, baby. Actually I cooked today. I got paid early, so eat up Baby Boy."
"You sure, you don't need me to do nothing?", I asked, looking around the living room and kitchen to see if anything was too out of place. "Sure, I don't need to do-"
"To hush, so you can eat. Olubowale, I'm fine today."
I smile. "I got to make sure, my favorite girl is doing good. Okay, Ma what you cooked?"
It didn't make a difference really, because I knew it was going to be good. As Mom and I ate our dinner together, it reminded me of those good days.
******
"So you just forgot about me today?", Crysthamum asked, as I walked into my room.
I cracked a smile. "Nah, ma never that."
Ending my night off right.
----
A/N: Please excuse any errors.
